Work Text:
There must have been a choice that you made somewhere in there, right? So where was it? The lord and lady of Whitestone have invited you to dinner; it’s such an honor for such a simple farming family. How could anyone refuse? That didn’t feel much like a choice.
You came back - well, not to life, but to something of that sort - and isn’t that a choice? Waking up hanging from a tree? Don’t those god types prattle on about the soul of the dead getting to choose whether or not they came back? Do you even have a soul or is that why you are the way you are? Have you ever had a soul?
You broke the gnarlrock, you killed Bor’dor, both with your own hands - surely, somewhere in there is a choice that you made - isn’t that what life, or whatever it is that you have, is supposed to be? Are your hands your own?
You sit at a table in Jrusar, a place that is meant to be home, with your friends - with Imogen - whom you spent all that time missing desperately. So desperately you lost yourself along the way, you think. If there was anything to lose in the first place. They talk about next steps and who to target next and it’s all you can do to sit there and think how did I get here?
Delilah. It always comes back to Delilah. Your second (third?) life revolves around her, just as the prior did. Why did she choose you? Why was it you? FCG once told you that you were never alive, and you believed him. Even in your first life, you were no more than a vessel, a doll that was puppeted by everyone around you. Then Delilah gave you a gift and you bore her one in return, but that wasn’t a choice.
It’s maddening, these circles you walk.
Delilah was a monster who, you have heard, acted the way she did out of love. She loved her husband so much she was willing to do awful, awful things. She reshaped an entire city - she reshaped you. You are filled with Delilah, you are a soulless monster, but you don’t feel you act out of love. You didn’t love Orym and Ashton so much that you sucked the life from Bor’dor, you know that. It was never for them, even if Orym gave you his approval. So what was it? Did you drain his life for her - for that deep, dull heartbeat that is not your own yet exists within you? Surely, surely not. You don’t love Delilah - but who are you without her? Can there exist such a love, a love without peace?
Delilah’s words from before echo in your ears for just a moment, drowning out your friends, making you jump - you see, at the end of all things, only yourself can be relied on, when all love is taken . Imogen sees you wince and her eyes search yours, but you can’t bear to look at her.
Imogen, you were told in uncharacteristic softness by Ashton, had given you a choice. You hadn’t been able to hear her - you were dead, again, and death is dark and murky and so far away from her light - but she had given you the choice to come back. You didn’t hear her, but when the spell did come through, an unfamiliar wave of light and such softness you had never before seen, you had felt that choice, finally. It didn’t come as a difficult one: your friends were waiting for you, and you couldn’t leave them after everything they had done for you. Whatever peace may have been waiting for you on the other side, without Delilah, was not for you. You couldn’t leave them with a heartbreak as large as that.
After all, they fought Delilah back for you, something you had never been able to do. You are a vessel, nothing more. You truly are a wretched, haunted thing. Back then, you had dared to hope one day even these echoes would rot, and maybe you would find that you were more than a blank slate others had written on. Your magic changed, just as the Sun Tree had. Just as Whitestone had. It was truly gleaming in the sunlight now, allowing its name to no longer sound like a mockery. You had met children who would never know the darkness that prowled those streets. And they had laughed! Not at you, but with you! Your friends - Imogen - they gave you the opportunity to grow, to become better, just as your old home had.
And what had you done, with that chance? Betrayed them. You betrayed them. You had killed Bor’dor for that, and here they are, offering you a grace you had never once considered giving him. He didn’t deserve it, and neither do you.
A soulless monster, a vessel for an even greater monster. At least she acted for love - doesn’t that make her better than you? She had - has - a great conviction, and here you are, bleeding black ichor everywhere, staining everyone who treats you with such kindness. Making them worse. Bringing Delilah back with you, because of course she isn’t gone. She made you, after all. You cannot be unbound, and maybe you don’t deserve to be.
Maybe - you glance at Imogen, make sure the circlet is securely on her head, keep your wickedness to yourself - maybe you don’t want to be. Your anxious hands twist around one another, clench and unclench, and you make sure the belts are secure around your waist.
You find a way to make your mouth move, speaking as if it were a rusty hinge, because you’re angry and you take it out on the others but they don’t deserve it - they’ve done too much for you. It doesn’t matter that they were shopping and fucking and making new best friends while you were revealing to yourself what you’ve always known to be true. You will find a way to be pleasant and to share information with them and to pretend to care about their adventures. You must. FCG hates that you killed an angel of the Dawnfather. You don’t care.
They start to argue again, FCG and Chetney at a volume you cannot tolerate with all of this darkness swirling around in your gut. You take the opportunity to tune them out, to close your eyes and rip more of your hair out. Perhaps if you remove enough the guilt will start to pull out with it.
You’re gently shaken from this penance by a soft touch from across the table, by Imogen’s quiet voice calling your name. “Where are you going?” You choke out, hoping the question is the correct one.
“Wherever you’re going,” her response is soft and sweet, much more than you deserve. The others try to pipe up with ideas, but your ears are only for her. “We can go see our old house,” she suggests. You cling to it like a lifeline, and away you go.
//
You’ve always liked Zhudanna. She’s always been kind to the two of you, even if you arrived in her life much like a storm. The two of you were always running back then. You’re not sure you stopped.
Zhudanna is old and wrinkled and she represents a life you will never have, but you hope desperately Imogen will one day experience. Though, of course, you hope Imogen does a little better at taking care of herself than subsisting solely off of oranges. You don’t stop to ponder where you are in this reality where Imogen gets to grow to be only kind and she lives to be wrinkly - you will never age; you will stay as you are. You’ve already proven to yourself that vessels do not get to grow, and your appearance will reflect this.
You and Imogen head towards the market in comfortable silence. You’ve been quiet with her before, of course, and that coupled with being home has left you with feeling like a warm blanket has been wrapped around your shoulders. It isn’t much, a small comfort, but it’s the beginning of something better, you think. Imogen has her spark, and she is your anchor - she will reign you in, as she always has. She tethers you to reality, keeps you from slipping into the inky black which fills you. At the very least, you think this excursion will stop you from spilling it onto others, as you did at the table.
Imogen seems off, though, and you can’t guess why. Did you upset her? That wasn’t what you meant to do. How could you have done this to her? She doesn’t deserve it, of course not, not after everything she’s done for you. Add another betrayal to the list, Laudna. No wonder you’re barely permitted to breathe.
You apologize to her profusely, trying desperately to get her smile to come back - you’ve infected her with your darkness, after all.
Her hand keeps returning to her circlet, a habit you had noticed at the table, too. Did she pick that up while she was away, with the others? Was there someone whose thoughts she had needed to hear? She stops you from spiraling: “It’s weird, Laudna, I can’t hear your thoughts.” Isn’t that a good thing, though? You’re one step closer to a normal life, to… to being able to leave me behind . You can’t voice that, either. “It’s great, but it’s also strange,” she says, and you can’t help but think she’s somewhere far away.
You attempt to reassure her, to bring her back to you: “You don’t have to listen in to get my thoughts.” You end the thought there, but really Imogen doesn’t have to do anything to get whatever she wants from you. You’d follow her anywhere.
“Can I kiss you?” She blurts, snapping both of you to attention here, in this marketplace. “I can’t tell if it’s all right or not anymore.”
Your thoughts stop walking their maddening circles, finding, instead, that there is another path to take. They stop entirely, first. You had heard Orym desperately trying to contact Dorian and that wizard fellow from the solstice using the sending stones, but they would always fizzle and crackle loudly. Your brain hums a lot like that right now.
“All right,” you breathe out, perhaps before you’re even aware of it. You blink a few times. “All right,” you’re a little more confident now, having taken a second to at least process the words both of you have uttered.
“All right,” she echoes, looking like her question had surprised her, too. Her eyes meet yours and she smiles at you. “So I will.”
You don’t have time to linger on that because suddenly Imogen is in front of you in a way she has never been before. She presses her lips, unbelievably, to yours, and she is so warm. You had forgotten how warm she is, having spent the last week sleeping alone. It’s her spark, you’re sure - she is warm, capable, and so strong. And her lips are soft and she tastes of oranges and-
And she’s kissing you ? She backs away, then, as if she’s heard your thoughts, tries to tell you you don’t have to reciprocate if that’s not how you feel after all. You reach for her, not with your hands, which have frozen in their cold, dead, clenched place. The only thing you have at your disposal are your words, which are tangled up because your heart, your heart, is beating faster than it has in thirty years, and that rapid beat is not leaving much room for the words to make a sound within you.
You stutter a few times and land on: “Obviously I care for you an immense deal…” The choice you’ve made this time is the wrong one. Her face falls - she thinks this is you turning her down. As if you could ever do anything but reach from your shadows toward her light.
You try again, your earlier spiral rising back up before you can stop it. You’re nothing without her, all you do is bad things, you murder, you betray, spilling inky blackness everywhere-
“You’re not a bad person,” She states, as if it’s a fact. You blink, trying desperately to believe her. “You’re not a bad person,” She repeats, her purple irises meeting yours, the wind teasing her hair.
It’s your turn to surprise yourself - you kiss her. Your hands finally unclench, and they seek her warmth, wherever you can put them. You desperately want her light to fill you up instead, and you’re trying to physically make it happen. All at once, everything you have ever felt for Imogen explodes within your chest. The younger woman with glowing scars who was the first to show any kindness to the dead woman in the woods - how it felt when it was just the two of you camping, how you slept curled around her, not to share warmth, but to protect her - Imogen sliding a ruby ring around your finger - how Otohan’s sword felt as it pierced your chest - how it felt to come back to life in Imogen’s arms.
You’ve never cared much about the gods. Their existence in Exandria is undeniable; you’ve never fought that. There are a whole lot of people who crave a personal relationship with the divine but not a single one is equipped to handle the consequences. You don’t have room for that sort of trouble - Delilah fills you with power and consequences enough.
Consequently, you’ve never put a lot of thought into what the divine truly means to you. Matilda never cared much about it - she was too busy pretending to be a lady and prancing about the fields of youth. To FCG, the divine is answers to the questions they have, faith in their coin and their goddess and caring for people around them. For Delilah, you think it was love, but her love was not rooted in peace, and therefore was not love. That has to be why she had the world and then lost it. That fact snaps into you with startling clarity as you hold Imogen in this marketplace - there is a stark difference between you and Delilah after all. The woman who brought you back to life (for the third time) had worshiped a god of light and healing, and she had aided you in stepping out into a Whitestone full of sunshine. Perhaps that was the closest you had come to being something new.
But this, you think, with Imogen breathlessly in your arms, this is your divine. You will learn how to love her exactly the way she wants to be loved. Perhaps you already do.
A long, long time ago, she had turned to you with excitement in her eyes, a cozy town around you, and breathed, “I love it here! Seriously, Laudna, let’s move here, after everything.” Back then, you had just smiled and nodded. Of course - you would follow Imogen anywhere. It was only logical you would accompany her there.
The memory makes your breath catch, and she looks up at you, her head resting against your chest. Is this what she had meant? Even then, could she imagine a life with you? A domestic life, full of ordinary comforts, with you ? Monstrous dead woman with a dead pervert rat companion? She never could have predicted what the “after everything” would entail, even to this point. You can’t imagine what the “everything” has in store for you both next. A pang of fear hits you, a new one amidst the many that the return of your purple magic had brought. You can’t lose her. You won’t. Perhaps Delilah’s world-shattering love had reached you after all.
“We’ll make it right again,” Imogen said, referring to Delilah. You realize now that you can’t - not if she will help you protect this . Not if she makes you strong enough to save Imogen.
“Maybe it’s our destiny to harness,” you have a hard time looking at Imogen as you say this, thinking of Delilah. You have a harder time looking anywhere else. You will use that bitch, you will continue to live with her, if it means you can preserve this little sliver of good that the universe has permitted you to have. Your hands mindlessly drift to the belts you have worn all of these years.
“Maybe it’s our destiny to fight it.” Imogen counters, her circlet secure, no way of knowing what you’re thinking. You think only time will tell where you both fall in the history of all of this, and she bumps you with her shoulder as you both turn to get Zhudanna’s groceries. Even that familiar touch sends a shiver through you - everything is different now. “Together either way,” she grins, and it blossoms in your chest. You feel warm inside, even though you know your body is not designed for that anymore.
She takes you shopping so you can finally get a dress that matches the beautiful corset she’s given you. Imogen, gorgeous Imogen, with her circlet that shines in the afternoon sun, has no way of knowing who you’ve been thinking of all day, and that this corset is reminiscent of exactly what she would wear. Imogen had met her but the once, and Imogen at the moment in time she bought this corset had no reason to know that she had returned. The only person whose entire axis had shifted as Bor’dor’s husk fell from your hands as you came back to yourself, a heartbeat that was not yours thumping in your ears, was you.
You play the part you’re given: you are a vessel and you are, you have come to realize, in love. You’d said before that you loved Imogen, of course you did, but it took her courage to make you realize exactly what way you loved Imogen. So you will do both: you will be a vessel and you will keep Imogen safe. You must.
And, as always, with your gray skin and black eyes, your appearance must reflect that. You pick a deep purple dress, smiling at Imogen standing before you, but seeing, too, a lady of Whitestone in her purple dress and corset, her high neckline affixed by green gems on a choker, as she hands you belts and a blue outfit. You put on the dress and the corset, holding the belts you’ve worn for thirty years. The belts you’ve worn since you were last really, truly, alive and breathing.
You tell Imogen whose belts they are without thinking - the words tumble from your mouth cheerfully, because you are glad to dress like a lady, despite everything. “Oh!” She exclaims, and though you were focused on the outfit you do take a moment to realize that you’ve done it again. You’ve been horrifying without meaning to. You will learn not to do this, you affirm within yourself. Imogen deserves only the best.
Regardless, you attach those belts to the house you keep Pâté in. You will carry them around just as you always have, and him, too, even if he is annoying and disgusting and you hate him a little. It was easier before he could speak. You acknowledge to yourself that everything you hate in him you hate in you, too, and Imogen cannot stop you from this. You will carry around a reminder of who you are and what has happened to you, but that isn’t everything.
Tonight, you get to go to the closest thing you have to home, and Imogen will be there with you. You will hold her soft, scarred hands in your own twisted hands, just as you have so many times before, but there is new meaning to it now. You will undress, bearing your horrible scar, and you will see her glowing scars as she does the same. You will sleep in the same bed and you will hold her. She will try to make your cold body warm and you will allow her to. You will love her the way she wants to be loved, for as long as she permits you to, and you will keep her safe, like shielding a candle in a raging storm. Her warmth, her glow, is not yours to devour. This is your call to worship, your benediction. You are the one who could live forever but you will spend it in service of her, in whatever way she asks it of you.